A Heart for Home (10 page)

“Where is the sugar bowl?” Mrs. Moore asked, a whine joining her anger. “I cannot have tea without sugar.”

“I will get it.” Ann straightened and left the room, her moccasinclad feet making nary a sound.

“What am I to do? Mr. Moore tells me to be patient, but this woman is impossible.” She inhaled as much of a breath as her corset would allow and straightened her spine. “I swear I will have my mother send a woman from her own staff out here to help me. There is no sense in trying to bring civilization to these . . . these savages.”

Were those tears in the young woman’s eyes? Could fear be causing all of this? Astrid clamped her teeth, her jaw aching with the effort to be polite. If there was any hope for Mr. Moore to become a successful Indian agent, his wife would have to make some changes in her attitude. Perhaps it would be better when Red Hawk arrived and she saw that the Indians could learn as well as any white person. If the Moores lasted that long.

She accepted the cup of tea offered in a porcelain cup so thin the light shone through it, with a matching saucer. “I believe you wanted to ask me something?”

Mrs. Moore finished fixing her own tea and took a swallow before answering. “I know you are most likely the only doctor between here and Omaha.”

Astrid nodded. “There might be a physician at the Rosebud station or maybe Pine Ridge. But how can I help you now?”

The woman, only a girl really, dropped her gaze. “I . . . I believe I have missed two of my monthlies.”

“Ah, I see.”
Lord God, send your grace and mercy here please. How
can this woman possibly have a healthy baby under these circumstances?
Wisdom, please. I need wisdom.

“Have you ever delivered a baby?”

“Mrs. Moore, in spite of how young I appear, I assure you that I am qualified to assist you. I have delivered many babies and look forward to many more.”

“Pardon me, I didn’t mean to . . . to cast aspersions on your training.” Her hand shook as she set the cup and saucer on the table.

“Perhaps not, but the advice I will give you could mean the difference between life and death, for both you and your baby.”

The woman across from her tried to hide the fear in her eyes, but Astrid caught it.
Be gentle
, she reminded herself. “I have several questions for you.” At the nod, she continued. “Have you felt tenderness in your breasts?” A nod. “Are you usually regular in your monthlies?” A shrug this time. “Does that mean yes or no?”

Mrs. Moore stared down at her fingers gripping the cup as if to a lifeline. “Not always, but I’ve never missed two before.” Two bright red spots graced her cheekbones.

“Mrs. Moore, if you find it so distasteful talking with me, a woman, how would you be able to discuss this with a male doctor?”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“Have you told your husband yet?”

“No. I wanted to be sure.”

“Is this your first pregnancy?”

A nod. “I think Ann knows. She has seen me rather . . . indisposed in the mornings.”

“Indian women understand that having babies is part of a woman’s life and usually make nothing of it.”

“I . . .” Mrs. Moore stopped and started again. “I think I shall ask Mr. Moore to take me back home while I can still travel comfortably. Not that coming here is in any way comfortable. My mother will be delighted to take care of me and her grandchild. We can return when the child is old enough to travel.” She stared into her teacup, as if seeking wisdom or perhaps permission.

“That is between you and Mr. Moore, but I recommend that you stop wearing corsets immediately and wear light dresses that will allow you to move freely. And walking is good exercise for a motherto-be. You will be stronger that way and ready to deliver your baby when the time comes.”

Mrs. Moore looked away. “Thank you for coming. I will take your suggestions under advisement.”

“If you have any questions, I will be glad to answer what I can. But we will most likely be leaving in the next few days.” Astrid stood. “Thank you for the tea. I’ll see myself out.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Does the woman not know how to say thank you? Astrid smiled at the young Indian woman stoking the stove, most likely to begin cooking supper. The kitchen was hot enough to send a trickle of perspiration down her spine just walking through it. “Thank you for making the tea.”

Ann nodded, a smile almost reaching her mouth. “Thank you.”

Astrid paused midstride. “For what?”

“For my sister’s life.”

“She had the measles?” A nod was her only answer. “I am glad I was able to help.”

The young woman nodded again, the smile catching in her eyes. “For my family.”

“Good. That is why we came.” Astrid felt lighter than when she’d entered the house. It was such a shame that Mrs. Moore held the Indians in such disregard. They could teach her a thing or two about manners – and life in general.
Lord, I should have been more
gentle with her. What would my mother say about this?
She was fairly sure she knew, and it did not make her feel any better.

8

B
LESSING
, N
ORTH
D
AKOTA

The days plodded by. Ingeborg went about her chores and gardening by rote, missing Emmy more than she’d thought possible. When Inga came out to visit, she was subdued too.

“Grandma, when is Emmy coming home?”

“Hopefully in time for school.”

“In September, right?” When Ingeborg nodded, her granddaughter continued. “August is next and then September?”

Another nod. “How do you know so much?”

“I ask questions.”

Ingeborg picked up the pan of cookies. “Did you put raisins on all of them?”

“Uh-huh. School is a long time away.” She popped a raisin into her mouth. “Emmy wants a kitten. Can she have one?”

“We’ll have to see.”
If Emmy does indeed come home.
Surely that had been a nod from the old man when she asked him to bring the little girl back for school? Emmy didn’t even turn around to wave good-bye to her. Ingeborg sniffed. Such interminable tears. Where had her backbone gone? She knew better than to allow herself to stumble toward the black pit of despair that had trapped her in the past. But sometimes knowing better and doing better were two different things.

Inga stood looking up at her. “Grandma, you sad.”

“I know.” Ingeborg forced a smile to her mouth and hoped Inga wasn’t paying enough attention to read her eyes. Her granddaughter’s shaking head quickly dispelled that hope.

“You want to read me a story?”

“Let’s finish the cookies, and then we’ll do that.”

Inga went to the oven door and sniffed. “These are done.”

To go along with the comment, Ingeborg took up a potholder and, using her apron to protect her left hand, opened the oven door. “Well, look at that. You are right.” She pulled the pan out, the round cookies all wearing a collar of tan, and set it on the table. “You be careful, and you can lift the cookies over to the rack.”

“Who made the rack for you?” Inga asked, holding the tray with the potholder in one hand while moving the cookies with a pancake turner with the other.

Ingeborg smiled, a real smile this time, at her helper. “You know this story.”

Inga nodded and grinned over her shoulder.

“Thorliff made the rack for me when Onkel Olaf was teaching the boys about woodworking in school. He gave it to me for Christmas.”

“How old was he?”

Ingeborg squinted her eyes to help remember better. “Maybe ten? Nine? Somewhere in there.”

Inga took the pancake turner and slid it under one of the waiting rolled-out cookies. “I didn’t put faces on these ’cause Grandpa don’t like raisins so much.” She slid the cookies onto the cookie sheet.

“How do you know that?”

“ ’Cause he always gives his to Carl.”

Ingeborg dropped a kiss on the part in Inga’s hair. “Maybe Grandpa knows how much Carl loves raisins.”

“Can I put this in the oven?”

“I’ll help you.” Ingeborg pulled open the heavy oven door and closed it after the cookie sheet slid onto the middle shelf. “There, now we clean up and then – ”

“Then you read me a story?”

“How about I tell you a story while we go pick some peas?”

While Ingeborg scraped the flour off the cutting board, Inga put the mixing bowl and wooden spoon into the pan of soapy water on the stove. She put the top on the tin that held the raisins and carried it back to the pantry while Ingeborg washed their utensils and set them to drain on the top of the reservoir for Inga to dry.

Inga sniffed the oven door. “They’re done.”

Shaking her head, Ingeborg checked. “Sure enough.”

A bit later, with the cookies cooling on the rack and the cookie sheet draining, they took two baskets from the hooks by the back door and headed for the garden.

“Do they have garden peas where Emmy is?”

“I don’t know.”

“She liked to eat the pea pods before there were peas in them. I like the peas even better.”

“I know.”
Please, Lord, bring her back to me. I don’t mind sharing
her so much if she can come back. How do I get in touch with her? We
don’t even know for sure which tribe she belongs to. If I could write her
a letter, it might help.
She shook her head.
Do they ever pick up mail
at the tribal agency?

She felt a small hand slide into hers and looked down to see Inga studying her. “I’ll be all right, little one. Let’s pick the peas. Do you have a favorite story?”

Inga nodded, a frown wrinkling her forehead until a grin chased it away. “I know.
Three Billy Goats Gruff
.”

“Which one do you want to be?”

“The troll.”

Ingeborg blinked. “Are you sure?”

“Uh-huh. Then I can sound mean and growly.” She fit actions to words, and then smiled up at her grandmother. “Pretty good, huh?”

Ingeborg handed her a fat pea pod before slitting one of her own and using her tongue to release the peas into her mouth, a trick she’d taught all of her children. Inga did the same, and they munched their first ones together.

“Once upon a time a mean nasty troll lived under a bridge that crossed a river between the barn and the pasture. Every day the three billy goats had to cross the bridge to get to the field to graze. One day the youngest billy goat tiptoed onto the bridge.”

“Who goes there?” Inga growled her most fierce.

“It is I, the littlest billy goat.” Ingeborg spoke as a little billy goat would speak, if a little billy goat could really speak.

“I am coming up to eat you,” snarled the troll.

Ingeborg tossed a handful of pea pods into her basket. “Oh, please don’t eat me. My brother will soon be coming, and he would be far tastier than me. I’m too little, barely a mouthful.”

Inga giggled. “You put in extra.” She deepened her voice. “You go ahead, you worthless little mouthful.”

Ingeborg grinned through the pea vines to Inga on the other side of the row. “And then the sound of hoofbeats hit the bridge again as the middle brother crossed to the pasture.” She caught Inga popping peas into her mouth. “Hey, I thought you were putting the peas in your basket.”

“I am. See.” Inga held up her basket to show the pea pods. “But that one asked to be eaten. After all, this troll gets hungry.”

“I see.” Ingeborg’s mind flitted back to telling this story to Andrew and then Astrid. Of them all, Inga was the most creative. When she knew the story, she loved to act it out. What if they were to do a drama at the school? While they did a Christmas play every year, they’d not done a real play at any other time. They could use the church, and . . .

“Grandma, where did you go?”

“I just had a marvelous idea.”

“What?”

“A play.”

“Play what?”

“Like the Christmas story.”

“Linnea almost dropped baby Jesus one year.”

“I know. But Johnny caught him.”

The audience’s collective “Ooh” had turned into “Oh good” and applause at the boy’s quick action. The incident would live among the Christmas tales of Blessing for a long time.

“I hope I can be in the play again this year.”

“You will be. Everyone who wants to will have a part.”

“I could be the troll and hide under the manger.”

Ingeborg swallowed a chuckle. “That would most surely be a different kind of character in the pageant. Maybe you ought to think on a different person to play.”

“Is a troll a human or an animal?”

“Ah, I’m not sure. A sort of human, I think.”

“But with a big nose – and ugly.”

“Right.”

“And mean.”

“True.”

“Did you ever eat a goat?”

“No, we used to eat mutton, which is sheep, but we never had goats.” She thought a minute. “Maybe I did back in Norway. A neighbor had goats. I’ll have to think on that.” Just the mention of Norway carried in a pang of sadness. She’d never seen her mother again after they left. Anji Moen had gone by the farm and visited with Ingeborg’s mor and far one year, but they were both gone now, and her brother had the farm there. That was why he had never come to America. None of her immediate family had immigrated. She should write to her brother and find out how things were there. Perhaps there was indeed someone else who wanted to come, especially if offered a job. Like Freda had come at Ingeborg’s request for help and brought several members of her family with her.

“Grandma, do we have enough peas?”

“Not enough to can but enough for dinner tomorrow.” It was her turn to cook dinner again. “I’ll make creamed peas and new potatoes with ham steaks. And biscuits.” Haakan loved creamed peas and potatoes poured over his biscuits. Would he be back before the peas were done? Hot as it was, the peas wouldn’t last long.

“I didn’t get to butt heads with the big billy goat gruff.”

“He would knock you in the river.”

“I know. Can we go fishing? Or wading?”

“We don’t have Carl here to catch the big fish.”

“You can call him on the telephone and invite him to come. I’ll go dig up the worms.”

“I thought we were going to shell the peas.”